


Pleasurable Company

by Heronfem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is needy, M/M, Wincestiel - Freeform, in all the right ways of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are certain advantages, now that Castiel is human.</p>
<p>(Or, the rather porny one-shot Wincestiel that showed up out of nowhere.  It almost has plot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasurable Company

There are several advantages to Castiel being human now. One of those is the fact that he’s abruptly been thrust into the body of a human male, which means all sorts of fun new chemicals are messing with his head and body. And since he hasn’t let that body enjoy itself for quite some time, they’ve all come rushing in lately, making days in the bunker wildly entertaining.

They’ve sent Kevin off to find Garth again, and he reported back successful. The angels are acclimatizing surprisingly nicely, and half of them have already decided to use their combined force, say fuck the government, and created their own little paradise island out in the middle of the ocean. The other half has taken to Nature, hiding up in the wilds of Canada and Siberia, away from humans. But none of that matters to the Winchesters, who have their hands full dealing with just one ex-angel at the moment.

Castiel is taking to sex like a duck deprived of water its whole life. He never stops whining and begging, fingers scrabbling over their bodies. At first, it had just been Dean. After all, Dean is the one with whom he shares the “profound bond”, the one who he well and truly loves (Sam isn’t delusional, and he’s definitely not blind). But then Dean was gone for a day, arguing with a little angel who was stubbornly refusing to remove herself from the top of a convenience store and pretending to be a gargoyle. Sam had been simply minding his own business, doing a bit of light reading on the traditional stag forms of the North American Wendigo when Castiel clambered into his lap and flat out shredded his shirt to get to the skin below.

So Dean came home, sweaty from the Kansas heat and a little annoyed about the whole thing to find Castiel moaning like a well paid whore as he rode Sam in one of the huge leather chairs in the study. There was an extremely awkward moment on Dean’s part, and more than a few sparks of jealousy, but when Sam’s head tipped back and Castiel went for the throat like the predator he really, truly was, Dean was forced to admit that perhaps, this wouldn’t be quite so bad.

So that was how it went.

Castiel stays plugged for the majority of the time, simply because fingering him open takes way too long in his opinionated little mind. This particular day, he wanders around the bunker, surprising them both on occasion, and if he can’t find them within a set amount of time he sets off the alarms and waits in the map room. It drives Dean crazy to hear the screeching wail, and so he rushes down to either shut them down or kill something (and Cas knows he’ll come running, the bastard) only to find the ex-angel spread out lewdly on the table, low, pleading whines falling from his lips.

Another good thing about Cas? Jimmy Novak’s body has nothing regarding a gag reflex, and Castiel likes being filled.

He’s in a particularly displeased mood, so Dean simply shoves the plug back in, drags him off the table, and gives him only a few moments to breathe before using his hair to drag him forward, shoving his face into heavy denim. Castiel, as it happens, has gotten very good at taking clothing off with his teeth, and if Dean’s in a bad mood that’s the only way they come off. When he’s angry, Castiel doesn’t get a bit of skin except what’s shoved into his mouth, or the fingers that tangle in his hair to keep him still. Sam often comes in at these moments, gently chiding Castiel for not coming to him once Dean has finished and pulls off, leaving his throat sore and tender. This is typically the cue for him to scramble up, splaying himself over the table as an offering, an apology to Sam.

A few mild swats with a hand, just to get him paying attention, and Castiel gets what he wanted anyway.

Of course, half an hour later he’s slipping hands under Sam’s shirt while he’s in the long boardroom, kissing him lewdly and rolling his hips insistently into him and Sam has to call for Dean, because it’s his turn to deal with a needy angel. Dean bitches and whines about it because he’s not a fucking teenager anymore, thank you, but he goes anyway and badgers them over to the long couch (long enough for Sam to stretch out, thank you God for thrift shops) and shoves them down, tells Sam to keep him still. So they make a nice sandwich, Sam tongue-fucking Castiel’s mouth while gripping his wrists in one huge hand with Dean draped on top, buried to the hilt and pounding him with the precision born of endless practice. Castiel is a writhing, desperate mess between them, and they make him wait until Sam’s gotten off, painting his stomach and chest white and Dean’s coated his insides as well before letting him finally scream his way into completion.

Sam’s other hand makes for a very effective cockring.

After dinner (which Cas attends stark naked save for the sticky drops of come that Sam refused to let him clean off and the plug that’s keeping him slick with Dean’s come because he’s a greedy little bitch for it), Dean casually washes the dishes while Castiel sucks Sam off, his noises lewd and desperate around Sam’s ridiculously massive cock. Dean’s a decent sized man, the Winchester genetics came through with gusto in that department, but Sam…Well. He’s fairly certain that Cas has to be able to unhinge his jaw like a python to take him the way he does.

Dishes done, it’s easy enough to wink at Sam, who drags him off by his hair, leaving him panting and eyes lustful. It’s easy to clap Sam on the shoulder, his cue to grab Castiel and heft him easily over his shoulder, and then they go to bed, where Dean settles himself in a comfortable chair to watch the show that Castiel puts on, his brother the furniture on the stage of the main event. And later, when Castiel is spread between them, Sam in his mouth and Dean fucking into him with lazy thrusts, the two just grin over his back, with his elegant skin and the pretty bruises in handprint shapes they’ve left all over him, they both can’t help but feel a little smug.  
Later, as Castiel sprawls over Sam’s massive chest, Sam’s head on Dean’s bathrobed lap, Dean rests against the headboard, absently stroking through Sam’s hair like he’s four again. There’s no romantic love there, just the old, dull ache of familiar family being near. Castiel twitches in his sleep, reaching for him, and Dean takes the hand with his free one. 

Sex and food and craziness was all the day had been, but here, he thinks with a happy sigh, here was his home, his people safe beside him.

He leans back, content to nap for a bit.

About five seconds later, his eyes snap open.

“Cas, you fucker, are you _serious_?”

oOo

The morning is soft and warm, and Dean groans in a little bit of annoyance as a foot slides against his calf. Sam's arm's are wrapped around him, holding him tight against any thoughts of an early escape. There are lips pressed to his neck, and there's the faintest scrape of teeth against his skin as Castiel worries absently at an already massive mark that Sam left the night before, and blunt fingernails (he still can't get a grip on clipping them) graze over his hip. Dean squirms a little at the touch, letting out a huffing whine as Sam nuzzles the top of his head. He’s tangled up in them, Castiel’s leg shoved in between his and another arm wrapped over his waist to keep them all close together. There’s morning wood all over the place, and he lets out a little groan of annoyance as Castiel rolls his hip, just enough friction to aggravate him into proper hardness.

“Cas, you bitch,” he mutters, and Sam huffs out a laugh as Castiel’s eyes spark in amusement, and the rest of the morning is spent slowly taking Dean apart with hand and mouths and lazy thrusts into a still slick body until he’s keening their names in garbled pleas, whining while they kiss each other over his shoulder. There are far worse ways to wake up, he thinks, and allows himself to be carried, boneless and sated to the bathroom with its tub large enough for ten (the Men of Letters were opulent little shits) and carefully placed into the warm water. Later, he knows that someone’ll decide that a table should be put to better use, or that the batter for the cookies he’s making will be better served as body paint, or that he’s simply not well enough marked up, but for the moment he’s content to be cleaned and petted by gentle hands, Castiel gently kissing a bruised and swollen mouth as Sam washes his hair with those obscenely talented fingers.

Life, he decides, is good.

**Author's Note:**

> The second section of this story was a gift to fallingfromthursday, and can probably be tracked down on her blog.


End file.
